Time Magnified, Man Troi Sound Department (Post Office) CD

If Rolf Harris' didgeridoo ever got some time off from endless recitations of Tie Me Kangeroo Down, Sport, Waltzing Matilda and half-arsed, but strangely popular, pop-techno records inspired by weathermen it would probably - in an entirely understandable attempt to establish artistic credibility - disappear up its own blow hole and make a concept album. If it chose to be pretentious around the theme of a dreamtime flight across the outback accompanied by a ghostly aboriginal guide the record would consist of unfeasibly long drones and passages of echo chamber-amplified night time silence interrupted by the horrible klaxon howls of an unsatisfied society crammed into a too-small city and constantly deafened by the machinistic rattles of industry running at full speed to make loads of crap nobody really wants or needs. If the didgeridoo sent a demo of its work to Post Office records in Wales it would be sent straight back with a stiffly-worded letter from the label's lawyer on the subject of plagiarism and a copy of Time Magnified's CD.
E-Mail: post_of_fice_records@hotmail.com
Web: www.postofficerecords.co.uk

Is it my imagination or is Bablicon's approach on this new record a lot more considered? Where previously it seemed like they couldn't stuff enough manic freneticy into a tune, here they've leaned right back for a different perspective on the jazz improvisation theme. On In A Different City, the debut album, they played like men trying to force a livid racoon into a smelly sack but now the animal is a compliant sloth and the sack a deluxe and fragrant sleeping bag. Less the vibe of spontaneous composition this time around and instead the buzz that comes from the refinement of ideas created by a group mind. Still jazz, still far-out and still intoxicating but very much a record for horizontal rather than vertical appreciation.
Web: www.pickled-egg.co.uk

The latest instalment of day Release's splendidly inclusive singles club. A disc each from the three bands, bundled up in a bespoke box that almost certainly matches the previous set. (I would confirm this but stick anything on the deck round here and it disappears..) Monsoon Bassoon offer up a blast of their patented blueprint of acid-powered sax abuse and corrugated rock. It's Morphine trying some rather less stuporific narcotics. On God Bless The Monsoon Bassoon they reprise the Cardiacs-folk of Sidi Bou Said who I hear have recently reformed - good news on both counts. Defeat The Young, worryingly, start off sounding like a slightly crapper version of Mark Hibbett, himself a Billy Bragg for the East Midlands with poor puns. Fortunately, things improve to the point where Syd Barrett is obviously an inspiration and Devo and Sparks add a dash of quirk along the way. For The Naysayer, see that geeky K Records collegiate half-jangle that only Americans can really pull off. Lo-fi and lady-fronted, it's never as shambolic, or appealing, as, say, By Coastal Cafe - but it easily could be.
Web: www.dayrelease.com

Across half-a-dozen tracks, these French computer scientists hunch their shoulders over complicated-looking equipment and tease out bitstream burbles to augment the quiet gloom that would otherwise surround them. On Slalome they weave somnambulist paths around a breakbeat and the rhythm gives a cohesion that's absent on the other more abstract experiments. Cheetah Chrome (a tribute to the one-time Dead Boy?) is the midpoint on the scale. It has a beat - a double pulse that stops and starts, fades in and disappears - while factory automata go about their robotic business and Kraftwerk ringtones are constantly triggered on the shop steward's mobile phone.
Web: www.thevacuum.net

If I was to say that they'd matured a bit, you wouldn't think I meant Stars On The Water had turned into Stars On The Ocean Colour Scene would you? Since the (relatively) excitable and noisy days of Lazer Guided, these folks have lifted their gaze from the floor and discovered that a world exists beyond their fringes. A world where quieter is allowed and where roominess, gentility and guitars without distortion are considered acceptable. And with this revelation came self-awareness and better songs, and depth and a new sound, the sound of complex and clean post-rock, hints of Syd Barrett and odd 60's harmony. Stars On The Water are older and wiser and wisdom, from whatever source, is still wisdom.
E-Mail: starsonthe@hotmail.com

Shape-shifting bass larded by Buckfunk like boiled onions onto a fairground hot dog. Twisted vocoderised vox and a tasty break at speed make this one of those records that makes you think you can look as smooth as LL Cool J used to just by straightening your fingers and waving your arms about awkwardly.

A double-edged sword, the remix. Yeah, sure, it shows your eminent good taste and the depth and exclusivity of your social circle - or the depth of your record company's pockets - but it can also show up your original track for the lazy, stunted cack-handed piece of formulaic crapola that it really is. Now, while the Freestylers haven't quite hit that low here, their decent cut is wildly outshone by Trick Or Treat's two-step reworking that is somehow both ruffer and more soulful without wasting a syllable of Navigator's gruff chat.

Three great new tracks from Marshall Star and a couple of old ones remixed. Once again you get the impression that the band started off with a shiny dance/pop song and somehow contrived to fuck it up with huge bass lunges and raw-assed beats. Imagine Gwen Guthrie's Ain't Nothing Goin' On But The Rent run over by an 18-wheeler and you're about there. In another life one half of the Star was in John Moore's Expressway. It's hard to claim there's always been a dance element to the music with that kind of background, but it might explain the dysfunctionality.
Web: www.marshallstar.co.uk

A lesson in logic for Dummycrusher: not A = not B does not imply A = B. That is, even if anything that isn't noise also isn't music, it does not follow that just because something is noise that it is also music. Unaware of this, you imagine, Dummycrusher proceed to squeeze hip hop and drum'n'bass through a rusty mincer, tossing in a few amphetamines, a few recognisable samples and some kid 606-baiting. Nothing wildly new but certainly worth a lot more than a passing look if you're this way inclined.
E-Mail: mail@dummycrusher.com
Web: www.dummycrusher.com